


Tsuyu

by antagonists



Category: Gintama
Genre: Alternate Universe, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-12 02:40:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9051976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antagonists/pseuds/antagonists
Summary: On an early summer night, Ayano returns home with a basket of plums, a lantern, and a river’s dark eyes.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Souja](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Souja/gifts).



> secret santa gift for [lackadaisical-pottymouth](http://lackadaisical-pottymouth.tumblr.com)  
>  ~~i apologize in advance if it isn't to ur liking aaaaa aaaa..~~
> 
> happy holidays!

 

* * *

 

 

The trees have shed enough blossoms to blanket the mountains twice over. Ayano keeps her steps careful on the rough steps carved into the incline, toeing past particularly slippery spots hidden under petals. Many of them are bruised, now, what with people traveling through the mountains, day and night. Gentle pinks, underscored with violent smears of mauve.

 

It’s difficult to see the sunset through the thickening leaves overhead. She spots the occasional fruit, not yet ripe, nestled within the last of spring flowers as a quiet, round shadow. Down she goes, following the stony path she’s memorized by heart. Night is fast approaching. Ayano slows to light her lantern, adjusts the basket on her left hip, and continues.

 

The mountains here are unkind at night. During the day, when the sky is bright and blue and clear, people do not fear venturing to the shrine at the top. On their way down, they might stop by the quaint teahouse she works at to share newfound ghost stories. They always leave before sundown.

 

Ayano doesn’t mind—being alone in the dark has never scared her.

 

She passes over the bridge, stops to look over the side. The river is quieter than usual, running low with the lack of recent rains. It has been somewhat of a dry year so far; without more summer rains, the later harvest may be lacking. She knows what the river looks like after a week’s worth of rain, and what it looks like during a drought. A friend, of sorts, that she visits from time to time. She’s not in a rush to go home, so she sits and dangles her bare feet close to the current.

 

The river goes still for a moment, then ripples at her toes.

 

“Going home later than usual,” it says by way of greeting.

 

“Summer,” Ayano shrugs. The river shows a shimmering reflection of the lantern in her hand. Behind her, clouds are sooty smudges on the sky darkening to deep, deeper blue. “Days are longer, though I’m not sure that holds any meaning to you.”

 

“Not too much,” the river admits. “But I shouldn’t keep you long. A storm will be here soon.”

 

Ayano doesn’t quite listen to that, and leans back to rummage in her basket for a plum. She saving most of them to extract later, since they’re low on plum syrup in the teahouse. Maeda back in the village has offered to help her.

 

“I suspect you’re anticipating the rain,” she says, swinging her legs. The tip of her toe dips into the water, and the ripples smoothen unsettlingly fast. If she hadn’t known any better, she might’ve thought that the glassier patches of water were the river’s eyes. She knows they’re not, knows that they’re simply deeper parts in the river, but it doesn’t lessen the feeling of being watched any. “It’s been a while since a good storm, and the villagers have been praying for them a lot recently.”

 

When the river laughs, the water bubbles at her feet. It sounds almost fond of her. “Indeed, but you really should hurry along now. This storm will probably be here a few days, and it’ll be heavy rain. You won’t want to walk too long in it.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

True to the river’s word, the storm stays for the better part of the week. Her small hut is on higher ground so she’s not worried too much about it flooding, but many others have already had to move their belongings to higher shelves. After the first day trying to venture outside, her umbrella is a wretched skeletal mess in a corner by her old sandals. The color in the paper has leaked, giving it the appearance of a lotus’ wilting petals.

 

She goes back to the mountain on the third day with a borrowed umbrella; a bit plain, but it’ll do. With several days of constant rain, the dirt roads are treacherous for everyone. Ayano sticks to the safer route, where worn stone dictates a path. An empty basket propped on her hip, her lantern held close to her chest so the light doesn’t go out. She keeps extra sandals wrapped in cloth and tucked into her obi, and slowly climbs up the stone steps.

 

The river is a loud rush when she crosses the bridge. Someone is waiting for her at the end, wearing something of a scowl and a dark kimono, barefoot. When she stops before him with a polite greeting, he looks away and mutters to himself.

 

“Say hello to her, you dimwit,” says the river. Ayano is only vaguely surprised to see a rather ghostly person pull himself out of the violent currents. She’s seen all manners of spirits before, but none that quite crawl into a human shape right before her eyes. In a man’s body, the river has an odd sort of gait, as if he would rather not be standing and isn’t used to it at all.

 

“I did,” says the other man, expression growing stormier the closer the river walks.

 

“Again,” the river says patiently, and turns the man’s head to face Ayano.

 

After a few seconds of silence punctuated by rainfall, the man concedes. “Hello,” he says, and turns his head away again.

 

“Sorry,” the river smiles. Ayano tries not to flinch at how pale he looks, almost like a drowned corpse. “Jirochou’s not very keen on interacting with humans. He’ll come around.”

 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Ayano says. The rain lessens for a few seconds, then returns to its previous heavy drone. The patter of water on her umbrella is sharp, biting.

 

“He’ll be gone within a few days,” the river says. “Always busy, this guy.”

 

Jirochou snorts, then lifts his head to stare up at the dark clouds. His hair is the color of a lightning strike. Despite the roar of thunder, he seems almost at home. She pieces two and two together fairly easily, but says nothing about it in favor of remaining on good terms. Demons, even with their penchant for ill-will and harmful behavior, have their own reasons. Spirits must be the same, especially those that guard little pockets of nature.

 

“The villagers are very happy about the rain,” Ayano says instead.

 

Neither the storm or the river reply. She hears only the rush of water.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The river does not have a name, and only takes one at Ayano’s request.

 

“I can’t tell others that I speak with spirits,” she explains as Tatsugorou sulks. The water levels have risen, enough so that her legs are submerged to her ankles when she sits on the bridge. “Most would think I’d gone mad.”

 

“Unfortunate,” Tatsugorou says. He’s taken on that human form again. It’s handsome in some way, Ayano supposes, but with too much of a recently-buried look. The river explains that he can only take the appearance of those who have drowned or otherwise died within his reach. Somehow, though she should really be disgusted by that knowledge, she is not afraid.

 

The storm has receded, leaving behind a clear sky and happy greenery. After seeing how the two spirits had bickered with each other, Ayano finds it a wonder that they could bear to be apart.

 

 “When he’s around,” she says carefully, “you are happier.”

 

Tatsugoro sits back and laughs, half-delighted, half-resigned. He looks a tad ghostly in the sunlight, dressed in the traditional white of the dead, but his smile is very real. Ayano thinks she could stare at him for hours. He’s gorgeous in that terrifying, awestriking way a god must seem to a worshipper, eyes like coal, eyes like an endless, starless night. “Well, that’s just how things are for us.”

 

“Have you ever been apart very long?”

 

“Once,” Tatsugorou sighs. “I don’t think _he_ would miss me terribly, but he always comes back to me anyways.”

 

She crosses the bridge again later; the days are long enough now that sunset leaves a wan streak of ruddy sunlight in the sky as she heads down the mountain. The reflection of the sky seems an unfinished painting over the waters, glowing with the colors of dusk and the shadows of night. It’s almost as if the river is trying to draw her closer, luring her in with beautiful reflections and the promise of a freer life.

 

“Don’t stay out so late, dear,” Maeda fusses as soon as Ayano steps into the village, lantern flickering in the wind. “The spirits will get you. They always love to prey on younger girls.”

 

“I am not afraid,” Ayano says, but the older woman fusses all the same.

 

“Demons and gods are practically the same, dear,” she whispers, tugging Ayano closer while accompanying her to her hut. “The only difference is that gods have shrines, have a place to stay. You be careful, now.”

 

A storm rumbles in the distance. By the time she has settled in to sleep, the air is already thick with the smell of rain.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“You really mustn’t like me,” she says to the storm, huddled in a relatively drier place under the cover of an old, decrepit shrine. No one comes here to pray anymore, so she doesn’t know which deity it’s dedicated to. “Tatsugorou’s much friendlier, you know.”

 

“Given the river a name now, have we?” Jirochou sneers. He stands in the torrent of rain, still barefoot, still magnificent. He doesn’t seem to be bothered any by the fact he’s dripping wet, though that might be so because he’s used to it. Or maybe it’s because he’s the storm itself, and not quite the dark-skinned man before him. She supposes that being spirits of different things gives them different personalities, despite being centered around the same element.

 

“You have a name too,” Ayano says pointedly, and the storm sighs irritably. How charming.

 

“He’ll be angry if I let you catch a cold in this weather,” he says, and raises an arm to the sky. The sheets of rain part just wide enough for her to fit through without getting drenched. “I’ll let you go, but you must promise not to speak with spirits so freely. We lead different lives from humans.”

 

Ayano dips into the gap without agreeing to the promise. The light of the lantern glows within her watery cage. “You’ll have to deal with Tatsugorou if I get sick!” she calls, and hurries home.

 

The rain does not touch her for the rest of the way. As soon as she steps into her hut, though, the storm worsens, as if extremely cross with her. She hopes that Jirochou can hear her laugh, mindless of anyone else who may be listening.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

She bathes in the river at some point, sweaty and tired from a long late summer’s day.

 

“I heard you yelled at Jirochou the other night,” Tatsugorou says gleefully. He’s turned away from her mostly out of politeness, partly to watch for nastier spirits. While Ayano appreciates the gesture, it’s not as if turning away will do anything, and she’s not a helpless—she’s handled demons before. “He was in shock, I think. It’s the first time someone’s ever been quite so rude. Besides me, that is.”

 

Ayano twists her hair to squeeze out the water. The current is soothing against her body, a cool reprieve from the humidity and heat. She picks a plum from her basket of fruit, and its juices are almost too sweet.

 

“Tell him to visit again soon,” she says, neck-deep in the water.

 

The river grins, and its human body dissolves into millions of tiny spells—the last to disappear are its kind eyes. Today is a cloudy day, but for a moment there is the illusion of a clear-skied reflection, the sun shining brighter than molten gold.

 

 

 

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> monsoon season is commonly called plum rain in eastern asia because plums ripen around the same time  
> 
> 
>   * 梅 (tsu/bai) = plum
>   * 雨 (yu) = rain
> 



End file.
